


Yesterday at Forum Romanum you met with Satan

by cataquilisme



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: 1930s setting, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Daddy Issues, Dark Will Graham, Devil Hannibal Lecter, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Fascist Italy - Freeform, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Master and Margarita, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Murder Husbands, Older Man/Younger Man, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Will Graham is a Mess, and he is trying to find his missing surrogate daughter, he is a bastard but also a softie, he is literally a satan, so he makes a deal with the devil, there will be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cataquilisme/pseuds/cataquilisme
Summary: 29-year-old Will Graham, an unfulfilled writer, is committed to an asylum as a result of the bloody murder of Garret Jacob Hobbs. After a nervous breakdown, he tries, above all else, to find Abigail, whom he has orphaned and for whom he feels a paternal duty to care for. The only thing stopping him from taking his own life is the impure force that appears in Rome and seems to answer all of his questions...
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Other(s), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Yesterday at Forum Romanum you met with Satan

At the evening hour of one cold winter day, two men were to be seen at Forum Romanum. The first of them — aged about fifty, dressed in a greyish suit and woollen coat — was a short citizen, well-fed, with hoary hair. He carried his decorous fedora hat by its brim, and his neatly shaven air was embellished by the exhaustion painted in his eyelids. The other, a narrow-shouldered young man with curly hazel hair and a Scottish scarf pushed back to the nape of his neck, was wearing a tartan shirt and a posh, two-button suit.

The first one man was none other than Rinaldo Pazzi, editor of a highbrow literary magazine and once a detective, retired as a result of losing the case of Il Mostro in Florence over thirty years ago. His young companion, on the other hand, was the poet Anthony Dimmond who wrote under the pseudonym of Englishman.

Reaching the shade of covered with snow lime trees, the two writers went straight to a gaily-painted kiosk labelled ‘ _Chlolodziec_ ’.

‘ _Buonasera signore, a glass of Succo di albicocca, per favore_ ,’ said Pazzi to the young woman behind the counter.

‘And for me, I would like to order a glass of Scottish whiskey,’ added Dimmond with his foreign accent.

The woman in the kiosk looked at Anthony in utter astonishment. For some reason, his request seemed to offend her. She silently poured a glass of apricot juice for Pazzi and handled over, and scoffed sarcastically to Englishman:

‘There isn’t any Scottish whiskey, _straniero_ ’.

‘Well, then, got any beer?’ enquired Dimmond in a hoarse voice.

‘ _Non c’è nessuno_ ,’ said the woman rudely with an unbecoming smile.

‘What have you got, then?’

‘ _Succo di albicocca_ ,’ was the short answer.

‘All right, handle me some,’ the man said, tired enough to agree.

After drinking it, the two writers paid and sat down on a bench, their backs to Capitol. They had been talking, it seemed, about Jesus Pantoractore and how the excellent critique and editor of art, Roman Fell, had criticised the newest Anthony’s poem to the bottom. Pazzi wanted to prove to the poet with the great courtesy that the main subject that he had taken in his work made it wrote off, whether he was a bad or a good artist.

‘You must understand, dear Anthony,’ said Rinaldo Pazzi with an exhausted smile, his lips trembling from the cold, ‘that writing about God these days is pointless. _Assolutamente inutile!_ Jesus had never existed at all, and all the stories about him are mere invention, pure myth, no one believes in those. And what is deemed to be unreal, makes us utterly uninterested, therefore the writing is not your vice, you just have to change the themes of it...’

Pazzi’s high tenor resounded along the empty avenue and at the very moment when he was telling the poet how the faith in God is irrational by the prism of science—the first man appeared in the dark avenue of Forum Romanum.

It was said later this man’s physiognomy had something exceptional indeed. Any collected data and issued descriptions of him were not capable of capturing the surrealistic painting of this mistic man’s air on the life’s, soft canvas. He wore an expensive checkered suit with a crimson power tie and foreign, leather shoes of the same, black dim as his suit. Under his arm, he carried a walking stick with a knob in the shape of a stag’s head. He was indeed in his late forties—maybe early fifties—clean-shaven, crooked sort of mouth with an internal, sinister sort of smile. Eyes black, eyebrows almost unexisting, dark hazel hair combed pedantically back. Definitely not Italian.

As the man passed silently the bench occupied by two companions, he gave them a sidelong, cold glance and sat down on the next bench a couple of paces away from them.

‘Oh, _Madonna! Santa Madra di Dio_ , another _straniero_!’ thought Pazzi. ‘An Englishman, like me...!’ thought Anthony with amazement. ‘Phew, but why is he wearing only a suit in the middle of winter? Isn’t he cold?’

The stranger glanced around the ruins of Ancient Rome, and it was apparent that he was both absorbed and petrified by its poisonous beauty; seeing this state of locality for the first time and almost gone puzzled because of it. His gaze halted then on the bridge nearby, he smiled patronisingly at something, frowned, placed his hands on the knob of his bizarre cane and crossed his slender legs.

‘You see, Anthony,’ continued Pazzi after a while, trying to not catch the unwelcome attention of the unknown man by his rude staring, ‘you have written a marvellously worshipful description of the birth of Jesus, the son of God, but the whole joke lies in the fact that there had already been a whole series of sons of God before Pantocratore. No one of these ever existed including Christ himself, and instead of writing such biblical nonsense that did not take place, you should have described... maybe... something about Ancient Grece...’

Here Pazzi was forced to interrupt his speech because the strange foreigner suddenly rose from the seat and approached the two writers. They stared at him in utter silence, startled and baffed.

‘Excuse me, please,’ said the man politely with a foreign accent, although in correct Italian. ‘for permitting myself, without an introduction... but the subject of your learned conversation was so interesting that...’

‘No, probably a Spaniard...’ thought Pazzi blinking with astonishment.

‘A Russian,’ thought Dimmond with sudden excitement.

I should add that Rinaldo Pazzi had found the stranger repulsive from the first sight; his intuition was whispering to his soul that he had been dealing with something evil. Anthony, on the other hand, with sudden blush covering his pale face, had liked the look of the man, or rather not precisely liked him, but... been interested in his stateliness and elegance.

‘May I join you?’ enquired the foreigner with such appealing politeness, and as the two shocked friends moved somewhat unwillingly aside, he adroitly placed himself between them and at once joined the conversation. ‘If I am not mistaken, you were saying that _Jesus Pantocratore_ never existed, were you not?’ he asked with a good-natured grumble, turning his dark piercing cold eyes on Pazzi.

‘No, you were not mistaken,’ replied Rinaldo hoarsely with a frown.

‘Ah, how interesting!’ exclaimed the foreigner, chuckling and turned his sallow face to Anthony. ‘And do you agree with your companion, my dear friend?’

‘I do, yes,’ the poet smiled with a gentle nod, hectic spots of red still burning on his cheeks.

‘Fascinating... utterly fascinating,’ cried the unknown man and soon he lowered his deep voice, almost whispering discreetly to them. ‘Forgive me, given I disdain to be discourteous, but am I right in thinking you do not believe in God either?’

‘That is true; neither of us believes in God,’ Anthony answered with a faint smile at this foreign’s apprehension. ‘And I am sure this is nothing criminal these days, man.’

The foreigner leaned against the backrest of the bench and asked, in a voice positively squeaking with both curiosity and mock despair:

‘Are you... atheists...?’

‘Yes, we’re atheists,’ replied Pazzi quickly, smiling angrily with growing unrest. Something seemed to throb in his veins. ‘Any rational society has long ago and quite consciously given up believing in all those fairy-tales about God. There is no God.’

‘Delightful, oh, delightful! Certainly not with that attitude’ said their guest with a strange touch of pathos in his voice, ‘but allow me to thank you with all my heart.’

‘What are you thanking him for, sir?’ asked Dimmond blinking.

‘For some precious information,’ smiled the unknown man mischievously, raising his forefinger meaningfully, ‘which as a traveller, I find extremely worth curiosity.’

This valuable piece of information had obviously made a powerful impression on the traveller as he gave a dubious glance at the ruins of ancient architecture as though afraid of seeing an atheist at every corner. From his blank look amazement, it could be assumed he considered his interlocutors as mentally retarded.

‘No, he is not a Spaniard...’ thought Pazzi with sudden dread, ‘but what I’d like to know is—where did he manage to pick up such good Italian?’ and frowned again.

‘Dear God, he is definitely a Soviet,’ thought Anthony as he bit his underlip.

‘But may I ask,’ began the foreign man from abroad after some worried reflection, ‘how you account for the proofs of the existence of God, of which there are, as you know, five according to Thomas de Aquino?’

‘From the prudent point of view, not one of these proofs is valid,’ scoffed Pazzi, slowly burning in impatience, ‘given that basing the existence of God on empirical assumptions undermines rationalism.’

The stranger pouted and suddenly there was his answer:

‘You have exactly repeated the views of the immortal Emmanuel on that subject. But here’s the oddity in it: he completely demolished all five proofs and then, as though to deride his own efforts, he formulated a sixth proof of his own’.

‘With all respect, signore,’ Pazzi burst out, ‘but Kant should have been placed in an asylum for such nonsense’.

‘Exactly, exactly!’ the unknown man cried, genuinely delighted by his answer. ‘That’s exactly the place for him. I said to him myself that evening at dinner: ‘‘ _If you’ll forgive my impertinence, professor, your theory is no good. It may be clever but at the same incomprehensible. People will think you’re mad._ ” ’

Pazzi’s eyes bulged.

‘At dinner... to Kant?’ he asked with blunt bewilderment, as his eyes turned at Anthony with a meaningful glance. ‘The Kant, dead for over a hundred years? _Morto?_ ’

The foreigner nodded with a smile, answering:

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Interesting,’ said Dimmond slowly.

‘But,’ went on the mad man, undisturbed by both men’s consternation, ‘sending him to the asylum is out of the question, because for over a one century now he has been somewhere far away from any mental illness institution and I assure you, gentlemen, it is impossible to bring him back.’

‘What a pity,’ scoffed Pazzi, his rudeness seemed to choke him.

‘It is a pity,’ agreed the unknown man with a glint in his eyes, and went on: ‘But this is the question that disturbs me—if there is no God, nor Jesus Pantocratore was alive, then who, one wonders, rules the life of man and keeps the world in order?’

‘Man rules himself, signore,’ said Rinaldo angrily to such an absurd question.

‘Is that so?’ retorted the stranger quietly. ‘I beg your pardon, but to rule, one must have a precise plan worked out for some reasonable period ahead. Allow me to enquire how a man can control his own affairs when he is not only compiling a plan for some laughably short term, such as, say, a thousand years, but cannot even say what will happen to him tomorrow?’

‘I do not have any problem in predicting what I intend to do this evening.’

‘But imagine,’ went on the unknown man with amusement, as though the polemics with clearly upset Pazzi had been giving him pleasure, ‘what would happen if you, for instance, were to start organising others and yourself, and you developed a taste for it—then suddenly you got... he, he... a slight heart attack...’ at this the foreigner smiled sweetly, ‘Yes, a heart attack, or maybe you got a chance to... how to say it politely... experience church collapse on your skin, he he... Did you see the recent one in Sicily? Marvellous! The facade fell on sixty-five grandmothers at a special mass. How can man rule himself, my friend? And we have lethal fires, storms and there there’s hail. Acts of God, as they put it. He just loves it, I assure you.’

Both friends just stared at the stranger in amazement, listening sulkily to his rant and making no answer at all. But the unknown man did not seem to be bothered with their silence, given that soon he carried on:

‘The man who thought he was in charge is suddenly reduced to lying prone and motionless in a wooden box and his fellow men, realising that there is no more sense to be had of him, incinerate him,’ while beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile, he reached in his pocket for an engraved black cigarette case. ‘Sometimes it can be even worse: a man decides to go on a meeting, therefore he catches the train and... a trivial matter you may think, but he cannot because for no good reason he accidentally slips and falls under a tram! Are you not going to tell me he arranged to do that himself? Wouldn’t it be nearer the truth to say that someone quite different was directing his fate? Naturally, the good spirits may not leave him until he is kissing the front of the train... he, he... he might even try to move; it is called terminal restlessness. The human flesh fills with adrenaline and feels compelled to go-go-go. But he does not rule himself, I’m afraid,’ the stranger gave an eerie peal of laughter.

Pazzi had been following the unpleasant story about the heart attack and the train with great attention, and some uncomfortable thoughts had begun to worry him honestly. ‘He is not a _straniero_... he is not a _straniero_! He is a very peculiar character... but who is he, _dannazione?!_ ’

‘Would you care a cigarette, gentlemen?’ asked the mysterious stranger unexpectedly, as though he did not see their concerns.

‘Do you mean you’ve got different sorts?’ asked Anthony with curiosity.

‘Which do you prefer?’

‘Well, then Sobranie,’ replied Dimmond with a slight smile.

The unknown man opened his cigarette case and offered it to Dimmond. Both the poet and Pazzi were startled by the fact that it actually contained one of the most expensive and rare Sobranie cigarettes; made of gold cover an abnormal length.

Their reactions were different. Pazzi thought: ‘No, he’s definitely a _straniero_... who the hell is he?’ Anthony thought: ‘Oh, he is indeed a Soviet!’

The poet and the owner of the case lit their cigarettes and Rinaldo, who did not smoke, refused with silent, unbecoming mocking scoff. ‘I shall refute his argument by saying,’ Pazzi thought, deciding wryly to himself, ‘that of course man is mortal, no one will argue with that, but the fact is that...’

However, he was no able to pronounce his thoughts because the stranger spoke unexpectantly:

‘Of course, the man is mortal, but that’s only half of the problem. The trouble is that the morale—something that is commonly known to humans as the pants of absurd morality—yes, the morale, comes to him so suddenly! And he cannot even predict what he will be doing this evening.’

‘Now there you exaggerate,’ Pazzi felt speechless and aghast that the stranger had apparently been able to anticipate what he was going to say, ‘I know more or less exactly what I am going to be doing this night, signore. Provided of course that the train suddenly does not crash my body...’ he added with a mockery, paraphrasing the unknown man.

‘A train is neither here nor there,’ the stranger interrupted persuasively, with his cane pointing to the Roman ruins surrounding them. ‘I assure you, you are in no danger from that since your death will be different, signore Pazzi.’

‘Oh, perhaps you know exactly how I am going to die?’ enquired Pazzi with understandable dim of sarcasm at the ridiculous turn that the conversation seemed to be taking. But, before the stranger was able to pronounce his answer out loud, the self-awareness had struck Pazzi, and he gasped, ‘Wait, how the hell you know my name? Who are you?!’

‘Are you a Soviet?’ exclaimed Anthony, while lighting his cigarette. He seemed undaunted by his colleague’s reasonable fear.

‘I?’ rejoined the stranger and thought for a moment, ‘A _Soviet_... a Soviet... Yes, I suppose I am a Soviet...’ he said.

‘You speak excellent Italian, I must say,’ remarked Dimmond.

‘Oh, I am something of a polyglot. I know a great number of languages,’ replied the man with an infamous smile.

‘Since you know people so well,’ the poet said eagerly, ‘maybe you have heard about Roman Fell and had the opportunity to read his books?’

‘Fell... Roman Fell...’ the unknown man mused thoughtfully, ‘yes, I believe so.’

‘They are terrible, aren’t they?’ said Dimmond as he pulled a weathered paperback from his coat pocket. ‘You know they’re terrible, but you’re too polite to say... blink if you agree.’

The foreigner blinked, his dark dead eyes glowing with amusement.

‘See?’ whispered the poet, keen of the stranger. ‘And yet that doesn’t stop him squatting over a keyboard and depositing a fresh one every six to eight months. It has taken me six to eight months to write one line! Poetry is hard, and it was too hard for Roman, and yet he dared to criticise my newest poems...’

‘Anthony, _e per l'amor di Dio!_ ’ Pazzi interrupted his friend’s speech, hissing with great enthusiasm and arising from the bench. ‘Let’s go, he is the one supposed to rot in the asylum, _dannazione!_ ’, he added anxiously, having obviously decided to declare war on their uninvited companion.

‘Rinaldo!’ the poet cried petulantly, a flush of embarrassment stealing into his cheek in accordance to his companion’s vulgar and uncouth behaviour. The poet’s glance was apologetic then, civil and complaisant, as he whispered to the stranger, ‘my deepest apologies. My dear friend certainly is not right-minded today.’

But the foreigner didn’t seem to be offended; he gave a cheerful laugh. Although to be honest, it was lacking its happiness; more of a mirthless giggle making Pazzi a little nauseous.

‘Oh, well, as it happens, where haven’t I been! More than one mental hospital was my oyster, dear citizen Pazzi! Although I am afraid, I’m not the one who will soon find himself committed... Nevertheless, to define is to limit.’

Pazzi laughed sarcastically, and soon he touched the poet’s arm, glancing at the stranger:

‘Would you excuse us for a minute, then? I should like a word or two with my friend since I am so not right-minded now.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed the foreigner. ‘It is so delightful sitting here under the ruins of Forum Romanum, and I am not in a hurry to go anywhere, as it happens.’

‘Look here, Anthony,’ whispered Pazzi when he had drawn Dimmond aside. ‘He is not just a foreign tourist from the Soviet Union... he is a spy! He is a Soviet imigré, and he is trying to catch us out whether we are Fascists or not. Ask him for the papers, and he will go away...’

‘Do you think we should...?’ implored Anthony petulantly, thinking to himself—’ _this gentleman was nice to me... And I never forget a face... he will be hard to forget... and he seemed an appropriate companion to critique more this distasteful Roman...!_ ’

‘Mark my words, Anthony,’ Rinaldo was astute beneath his manner. Did not miss much, it seemed. ‘He is pretending to be an idiot so that he can trap us with some compromising question. You can hear how well he speaks Italian,’ said the man, glancing sideways and watching to see that the stranger was not eavesdropping. ‘Come on, let’s arrest him and then we’ll get rid of him.’

Pazzi led the poet by the arm back to the bench. The unknown man was no longer sitting on it but standing beside it, holding a booklet in a dark grey biding, a fat envelope made of a good paper and a visiting card.

‘Forgive me my bad manners, but in the heat of our argument, I forgot to introduce myself,’ said the foreigner gravely, giving both writers a piercing stare. ‘Here is my card, my passport and a letter inviting me to come to Rome for consultations.’

The two men were embarrassed. ‘Hell, he overheard us...’ thought Pazzi, indicating with an almost polite gesture that there was no need for this show of documents. Whilst the stranger was offering them to the Rinaldo, Anthony managed to catch sight of the visiting card. On it in foreign lettering was the word ‘ _Dottore_ ’ and the initial letter of a surname which began with an ‘L’.

‘Delighted,’ muttered Pazzi awkwardly as the unknown _dottore_ put his papers back into his pocket.

Good relations having been re-established, all three sat down again on the cold bench.

‘So, you’ve been invited here as a consultant, have you, _dottore?_ ’

‘Yes, I have... to _il Duce_ himself.’

Both friends went pale.

‘And... and you have been invited to _il Duce_ , because...?’ Pazzi asked with a gulp.

‘Apparently, The Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica has unearthed some original sculptures that are remains of ancient culture before Christ. I have been asked to decrypt and define them,’ the stranger replied calmly.

‘Aha! So you’re some kind of art historian?’ asked Dimmond in a tone of considerable relief and respect.

‘Yes, I am an art historian,’ the foreigner added with apparently complete inconsequence. ‘this evening both poetic and historical event is going to take place here at Forum Romanum.’

Again Pazzi and the poet showed signs of utter amazement, but the unknown consultant beckoned to them, and when both had bent their heads him, he whispered:

‘Jesus Pantocratore did exist, you know.’

‘Look, _dottore_ ,’ said Rinaldo with a forced smile. ‘With all respect for you as a scholar, we take a different attitude on that point.’

Some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of the unknown man’s lips and left them trembling. With the air of a greek martyr he made a little mouse of discontent, and soon enquired:

‘When your great eye look to the heavens, what do you see?’

‘Nothing,’ scoffed Pazzi, his face growing increasingly nervous and clouded. He did look at the sky, though, perhaps to make sure of his righteousness as uncertainty tormented his soul more and more with each passing moment. Dark clouds had begun to gather around them, riding the winter winds. Soft snow was marking the trees and marbles. Truly _nothing_.

The stranger glanced up to the heavens as well.

‘Not anymore,’ he said in a meditative manner.

Both Dimmond and Pazzi almost gasped in amazement when at that moment, a tremendous thunderstorm began. A sharp pang of trepidation struck through Pazzi like a knife, and he felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. A shudder ran through his spine at the unusually deafening sound of thunders.

‘How... how long did you say you had been in Rome...?’ asked Pazzi in a shaky voice, slightly worried.

‘I have just arrived,’ replied the _dottore_ , slightly disconcerted. Only then did it occur to the two friends to look him properly in the eyes. They saw that his eyes were completely mad, expressionless and dead.

‘Have you come here alone or with your wife?’ asked Anthony calmly, but the anxiety has come to his guts as well.

‘ _Wife..._ ’ the stranger repeated mockingly. ‘No, I have come alone, I am _always_ alone.’

‘But where is your luggage, _dottore?_ ’ Pazzi enquired cunningly. ‘At the hotel? Where are you staying?’

‘Where am I staying...? Nowhere,’ answered the mad foreigner, staring moodily around Forum Romanum with his hazel eyes.

‘What!... But... where are you going to live?’ Dimmond started to laugh nervously.

‘In your flat,’ the lunatic suddenly replied casually and winked to him.

‘I’m... I should be delighted...’ stuttered the poet shyly, ‘I’m, uhm... I mean... yes... I would be honoured if you could make your acquaintance there... but I’m afraid you wouldn’t be very comfortable at my premises...’

‘There are rooms at the Metropole,’ Pazzi added, smiling broadly and meanly at the foreigner, ‘excellent ones! It’s a first-class hotel...’

‘And the devil does not exist either, I suppose?’ the madman suddenly enquired cheerfully of Rinaldo, interrupting him.

‘What...? No. There is no such thing as the devil!’ Rinaldo burst out, hopelessly muddled by all this dumb show.

At this, the lunatic gave such a laugh that is startled the sparrows out of the tree above them.

‘Well now, this is interesting,’ said the consultant, quaking with laughter. ‘Whatever I ask you about—it does not exist... But tell me this; when God looks down at you, don’t you want to be looking back at him?

‘I’m not sure I do understand,’ Pazzi scoffed nervously.

‘God gave you a purpose. Not only to create art but to become it. When one is unable to create, the one should be sewed in the fresco.’

‘Calm down, _dottore_ , calm down...’ Rinaldo said harshly. ‘Uhm, thank you for the conversation, but we have to... uhm, run around the corner and make a phone call and then we can take you where you want to go. You don’t know your way around town, after all...’

Pazzi’s plan was obviously right—to run to the nearest telephone box and tell _la polizia_ that there was a foreign _dottore_ sitting at Forum Romanum who was clearly insane and was convincing people that he had an invitation from _il Duce_ himself. Something had to be done, or there might be a nasty scene.

‘Telephone? Of course, go and telephone if you want to,’ agreed on the lunatic, but he clearly grew _sad_. ‘There is no need to keep you here longer. But please—as a farewell request—at least say you believe in the devil, signore Pazzi. I won’t ask anything more of you. Do not forget that there is still the seventh proof—the soundest! And it is just about to be demonstrated to you. Your eye will now see God reflected back. It will see you.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Pazzi quickly pretending to agree.

Both friends said their goodbyes and rushed quickly towards the gates of marbles. But very soon they heard the foreigner shout:

‘Signore Pazzi! Wouldn’t you like me to send a telegram to your wife, Allegra, that you _won’t_ be coming home tonight?’

Another shock—how did this madman know that the was married to Allegra? Nobody had ever put that in any newspaper. Dimmond was startled as he thought that Pazzi was right about the unknown dottore after all. Definitely a weird character... ring up, ring up at the Asylum of Insane... they shall come and sort it all out in no time.

Without waiting to hear any more, both companions ran on.

But suddenly lightning struck the marble column and it began to roll down with a roar. Anthony groaned and had enough luck to pull himself away, while Pazzi had frozen in place, and soon only petulant screams could be heard at Forum Romanum. Pazzi vanished from Anthony’s sight under the ruins of Roman columns.

In a few seconds, the crystal-clear snow was covered with the flipper of a crimson red hue. The loose, single limbs of the Pazzi’s mutilated flesh were dripping with blood. There were screams of the tourists somewhere. Anthony stood nearby, startled and petrified, and tears started welling into his eyelids. He fell to the cold ground near to his dead companion, and the whole street could have heard his utterly painful cry.

‘It was him!... It was him! This bloody foreigner!’ he repeated like a mantra, confusing people next to him.

Because at the Forum Romanum, there was no foreign man. He disappeared just like a cloud of smoke in the air.


End file.
